The look was nearly the
typical look of a hyena—blank and frank, the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed, jaw hanging open, big ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright and black—were it not for the strain that exuded from every cell of its body, an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever.

The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if to attack, its
dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us and glided underfoot with fearsome grace.

The breakfast that was to make up for nine missed meals, not to mention odd tiffins that Mother had brought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid and vacuum-packed in silver-coloured
plastic that was covered with instructions in twelve languages.

And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when it’s an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening—in both cases,
utterly spine-chilling.